Forecast
by Lion Del Rey
Summary: Every woman is a storm. Five ficlets for five clones. Contains 3x10 spoilers.


I. CLOUDS

Today was cloudy, and clouds were always a reminder.

Through curls of light grey, she fell in love. She felt intoxicated, and she was unsure if it was the French woman in front of her or the drug that filled her lungs. She would give anything to inhale the incense, the perfume, the smoke again.

Her casket holds flowers, strewn across her blond hair in a way that could never do her beauty justice, her mouth tugged with regret. Candles are lit, illuminating everyone wearing black. Smoke dances after they are blown out.

The scientist can hardly breathe, and she's unsure if that's from the woman in front of her or the sickness filling up her lungs.

Now when she inhales, all she remembers is death.

* * *

II. HAIL

She waited for a bus from Vancouver.

She spent time hiding away from the monsters that consumed her real life, with white fingers and dirty tricks. And it was never snow, like her childhood, but another powder that she wished she never touched in the first place. The demons wore disguises of compassion, and she was tired of removing the masks.

She spent time in mountains, a messenger and a carrier for those demons, surrounded by trees and longing. All she had wanted was a better life for her daughter, and she ended up hiding.

A few months after she had left her daughter with a better life, she thought she had wanted to come back. She had the crumpled bills in her pocket, just enough to pay for a ticket to home, and she waited outside on cold benches.

And then, thunder rolled overhead. A downpour of hail hurtled towards the ground, pronounced shatters, crushing cars, the size of golf balls people said, stay inside people said. She didn't. For hours, she waited at the stop and her legs were freezing, she waited at the stop grateful for the sturdy platform overhead, she waited at the stop clutching her hopeful ticket.

The bus never came. With frustrated tears, she waited for six more months.

* * *

III. SNOW

She lays in a room, under nauseating fluorescent lights. Spotlight. Her curly mop of blond hair seems wilder than usual, and layers of restraints keep her from escaping the act. The costume clings to her skin.

The woman is unsure where she is. Home? An institute? A prison? She knows suffering has been ingrained in her synapses. But this is not the worst she has felt.

When she remembers pain, she sees snow. Outside, she sees layers of white that she can never touch. She recalls being trapped. Snow reminds her she is alone. There is no escaping the world she was born into. There is only praying and snow.

With crippling screams and bloodied gowns, her eyes focus. She knows she is surrounded, but not in a bad way. She sees faces above her, so similar to her own, with bangs or glasses or eyeliner. They encourage her; they do not threaten her. She spent her whole life pushing, away and through, but this time she knows what she is pushing towards. She pushes away from the pain, away from the thoughts, away from the snow. Contract, push, crown. A cry rips through the air that is not her own, and her muscles relax.

They tell her he is a boy. And as she holds him, she knows her son will not be born into winter like she was.

* * *

IV. RAIN

Her son scurried across the field, dark hair bouncing. His first varsity soccer game. She cheered from the sidelines, but he made it clear to "not be too loud". That didn't mean she had to leave her foam finger and war paint at home. Parents gradually inched themselves away from her and her spirited husband, but neither would care. He looks at her from the turf and sheepishly waves.

The sky looks dark overhead, so the turnout is low, limited to devoted fans and, well, them. As the crowd watches the high schoolers dash across the field, droplets begin to fall from overhead. The rain falls faster, but not harder. She stands up immediately, about to ask the referee to cancel the game, about to offer blankets, about to bring her umbrella.

But she wasn't the coach anymore. Her eyes fill with pride and she tears a little. She sits.

With a glance at her husband and then at the turf, she knows they made it.

* * *

V. SUN

Light hit her palms when she drove, sticking her hand out the window.

She remembers summers at sixteen with a license, singing in the car until her voice gave out.

She remembers early mornings, running with him, running towards something and not away.

There were days when she didn't know something was chasing her. She recalls when she didn't need chemicals to negate her imbalances. Her problems had solutions in the back of the book. And eventually, she never needed to check.

Nowadays, she had no luxury of an answer key. Each day twisted into a new puzzle, forming question marks dotted with loneliness. And as she finally understood everything, for once, she would rather not know. She was once kept in the dark.

But when she jumps in front of the train, she knows she will be in the sun.


End file.
